Progression
by SamuraiSal1
Summary: "Right, that sounds perfectly sane," England groused, glancing over to America with notable boredom. "Inexperience coupled with bitterness and enveloped by a rather crushing incapability to communicate emotions. I'm no expert on how relationships work, but I doubt that this is the time or the place to make such a proposition." / Historical, takes place during the Tunisia campaign


**Foreword: The Tunisia Invasion lasted from November 17 of 1942 until May 13 of 1943, though this fic starts earlier and finishes earlier as well. I recommend looking up at least some of the background information about the campaign; it's actually quite interesting, if you're into that sort of thing. **

**This will also reference canon events in the webcomic; I suggest looking up some of the Birz strips if you're unfamiliar with the strips about America and England in Tunisia.**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**6th of November, 1942**

* * *

It was a warm day for November, particularly considering the temperatures that the North American side of the Atlantic faced that time of year. Needless to say, when the American troops stepped off the boat, some were slightly confused, others grateful for the warm weather. If memory served correctly, America was of the latter kind of troops. He had never been one for cold weather, England mused, watching the troops step off of the ship.

There was a brief pause; evidently the troops were being called to attention, and England couldn't help but be rather amused, watching the clearly under-trained American soldiers sloppily stand at attention. Most appeared overconfident and severely unable; regardless, the Brit refused to judge them too thoroughly without a reasonable training exam at the very least.

Still, he could have sworn he saw a few soldiers tripping over themselves when they walked on shore; it didn't quite bode well.

* * *

Approximately thirty minutes later found England in the same room with America. The American obviously looked rather unprepared, disheveled, even, but there was something unwavering about his expression. England decided he liked it.

Greetings were, as per the norm for nations, rather uninteresting. A handshake here and there, mostly functioning under the pretense that they hadn't known each other for several centuries for the sake of the humans around them. Once most of the troops left, along with the major generals, the nations saw fit to drop pretenses. America slid into one of the chairs provided, with England not far behind.

"How was your trip?" the Brit asked, feeling conversational.

"Long and tedious, and full of sea-sick soldiers." America shuddered, evidently remembering the unpleasant trip in minute detail. England snorted derisively, unable to stifle a slight laugh at the other's predicament. America just rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair slightly, propping his ankle over his thigh, raising a brow. "What, you're seriously going to pretend you've never been stuck with seasick cabin boys? Yeah, here's looking at _you_, 'terror of the seas'."

England huffed, glancing away, still half amused but with some irritation creeping in. "Right, I suppose you're any better? I do believe you've been in the Navy since you've _had_ one."

"And I'm unofficially three ranks higher than the highest rank there is," the American shot back, half teasing. At the other's nonplussed expression, he cheekily added, "Or is that a sore spot, since you've been kicked off of every captaining position available?"

"Sod off," England muttered, but he still felt in an uncharacteristic good mood, and a teasing comment would hardly ruin it for him. "Unless you'd prefer explaining to me how you maintain your military status while stuffing your gob every few minutes, I recommend not making any mentions of my unfortunate privateering career."

Flushing slightly at the below-the-belt jab—or perhaps it would be an _around_ the belt jab, as his looked slightly tight even on its loosest setting—America just huffed. "At least I have decent food to eat. The rations you're giving your soldiers are just pitiful. I swear I just walked by some poor Brit eating charcoaled bread that had been stale to start with. When I asked him why he'd tried cooking it, he said he'd hoped to give it flavor." He broke into a peal of laughter; lines underneath his eyes crinkled—ones that England hadn't even known he had—and suddenly he looked a bit tired, despite his joviality.

It was a somewhat painful realization for England, and when he replied it was with a noticeable lack of bite. "Oh, like yours is any better. Don't think I haven't seen multiple American chefs already trying to indoctrinate my people to start soaking everything in butter and frying it," the Brit argued, offering only a brief scoff. "I don't need anyone getting heart disease. We're already in a bloody desert, we hardly need someone keeling over from fatty foods."

America rolled his eyes, but his mouth settled into a hint of a smile. "You guys could use a slightly higher calorie diet, to be honest. You all look pretty skinny—those rations starting to hurt?" he asked, sounding almost concerned under it all, and that was something England certainly didn't need to be hearing from _America_ of all people.

"And again, you have the exact opposite problem," England stated, gesturing to the other's midsection. He laughed when America immediately sucked in. "Oh, of course, that'll fix it."

"Shut up," America muttered, glancing away, clearly embarrassed. "At least I don't need thicker material on my clothes just to make me look less bony."

The Brit snorted derisively but didn't find much to say to that; instead, he half proposed a truce, changing the subject rather abruptly. "Right, well. Regardless, how well-trained are your men? I can't have schoolboys fighting on my side, you know. They act like puppies around weaponry."

America laughed. "Ha, most of them are just glad to be away for a while. All of 'em have been having a rough last decade or so, what with the Depression and all. They get fed better here than back home, that's for sure. I think whether they're really 'ready' or not, they'll give it their best shot."

"That's all they have to offer?" England asked, slightly incredulous. "Surely you jest."

"Nah, truth be told we haven't had much training at all. We have the Mojave Desert, sure, but there aren't many forts set up to train in. There's one or two, maybe, but not everyone's been to them. I mean, you did ask for them here in a bit of a hurry after all." America gave the other a rather meaningful look, as if asking for gratitude. "We did the best we could on such short notice."

The Brit merely rolled his eyes, but even he couldn't be entirely ungrateful. "Yes, well, I suppose they'll just have to prove their worth on the field."

"Anyways, how soon are we rolling out?" America asked, furrowing his brow. "Last I checked we had at least a little bit of time before we had to go on the offensive against the Axis—"

Shushing him hastily—as they really shouldn't have discussed anything to do with battle plans while in a fairly accessible room—England couldn't help but let his lips turn upwards into a smirk after the American had quieted down. "Ah, my dear America. You see, there's a frog that's still captured around here. It's our job to bail him out."

Incredulous, America couldn't help but give the other a long look. "And we're doing this when?"

"In two days. I do hope your troops are quite prepared for this," England said, smirk still evident. "We wouldn't want your first operation to be a failure, after all. You're carrying a _Torch_ for all of us."

* * *

**November 8****th****, 1942** found American and British troops alike heading for Casablanca, finding the French forces easily. The objective was to liberate the Vichy French troops from their German commanders and to use them as soldiers for the Allies, as was their pre-war disposition. The operation was called _Torch_, and though there hadn't been an exceeding amount of planning involved, it ran fairly smoothly.

It was a long battle, lasting three days total, finally ending on **November 11****th****, 1942**, but it had very few casualties on either side. That being so, the fight wasn't particularly memorable, and though it lasted longer than either side had previously anticipated, it was without much of a fuss that the French finally surrendered.

Afterwards, when the treaties were being signed and the formalities taken care of, America pulled England off to the side. Both were still filthy from the dirt and sand blasted their way when the guns went off, and neither were particularly lively having foregone sleep since the second day of the battle. Still, it was with a wide smile that America intercepted his British comrade.

"So?" the American prompted, jabbing the smaller nation in the side. "How do you think we did?"

England gave him a calculating look, a hand on his chin as if studying the other, then finally shrugged. "I suppose you didn't do terribly. However, I do hope you realize that the Germans will hardly go down so easily. It was with reluctance that the French soldiers had to fight, and you'll note that though they carried on for quite some time—France always was one for theatrics—they didn't fight us particularly hard. Neither one of us lost many men."

America looked a bit put out, and crossed his arms over his chest, looking a bit like an overgrown child throwing a temper tantrum. "Yeah, and? They still couldn't escape and we freed them perfectly. The fact that we could do it skillfully enough to avoid a lot of casualties means that we're prepared for the actual battle."

The Brit stared at him a while, but given that demoralizing a fellow Nation was hardly a good idea in a time of war, he relented the lecture that was sure to have come otherwise. "I suppose you're right," he said, voice without much inflection. "Hopefully such a good show will continue when we fight the Germans. I trust your soldiers are more than ready for an actual fight."

America's lips turned upwards into a smile, clearly cheered. "Yeah, of course they're ready. They're my troops, aren't they? We're ready for absolutely anything, you can count on us!"

Condescendingly, England patted him on the cheek before turning away. "Be that as it may, I suppose you can handle things on your side of camp. I'm heading off for bed." He stifled a yawn, walking somewhat unsteadily towards his part of camp, his leg still cramped from having driven a vehicle for so long. "I recommend the same for you, America. We're pulling out early this morning, and it would reflect badly upon our alliance if you show up late for the march."

America nodded, turning his own way. "Alright, goodnight. See you in the morning."

England gave a half-hearted wave, not bothering to turn around to see if America was actually headed the right way. He continued on into his own tent, thankful beyond measure that it was light and portable enough to be carried, unlike the many foot-soldiers that would be sleeping under the stars or all grouped together in a few large tents.

Too exhausted to bother with his night-attire, he simply kicked off his boots and slid into the cot. He half wished it was a bed, of course, but there wasn't much he could do about that and besides, he'd long since gotten used to falling asleep on command—it didn't spare him from having a constant crick in his neck from sleeping on cots, however.

The night passed swiftly, and the trumpet blasted far too loud from the center of camp.

England awoke, like always, to a crick in his neck and a sort of stiffness to his spine, and it took him longer than he'd have liked to admit to drag himself out of bed. He felt filthy from having foregone a shower the previous day, though there wasn't much to be done about that given the current circumstances. So he simply washed himself the best he could with a washcloth and a precious small amount of water he could spare, and then slipped into another set of his uniform, bundling his spent one into a small bag of things he'd have to carry on his back.

Part of him half considered asking America to carry some of his supplies, given that it would hardly phase the other, possessing inhuman strength and all, but his pride quickly shot that idea down and he slipped the rucksack onto his back before unhitching the tent and wrapping the cloth around the poles, sticking the tent inside and doing the same with the portable cot shortly thereafter.

Already he missed even the meager supplies back at the semi-official camp. Though they hardly had beds, the cots were of a slightly less uncomfortable variety and there was some semblance of furniture, though it didn't stretch beyond makeshift desks and uncomfortable chairs. Still, it was quite a bit better than folding cots and tents and marches to other forts that lasted for days, all the while he had to carry his equipment. Sometimes he got lucky and could set it on the tanks and simply let it move his things for him, but often-times his generals would say that it was a bad example for the enlisted soldiers and he'd have to go back to carrying it.

Sighing, he slung the already-heavy rucksack onto his back and made his way to the center of camp. When he didn't immediately spot America, he heaved a sigh and started walking in the direction of America's tent—or what would have been America's tent, if it hadn't been already picked up. Confused, England looked around for a moment, tired eyes betraying him until finally he spotted a soldier with both glasses and blonde hair.

He walked over, half-checking for the ever-familiar cowlick at the top of the head, and breathed a sigh of relief when he'd found the right soldier.

"So you did make it on time," England said, half-attempting conversation.

"Barely," America admitted, laughing a little. And that's when England notices the outrageously oversized pack, and he can't help but laugh, much to the American's dismay. "What? Not you too! My commander's already given me hell about it, apparently it's a sign that we aren't normal." Noting England smaller pack, he added somewhat rudely, "Or at least some of us are abnormal in better ways than others."

"Sod off," England said, some bite coming into his voice. "My pack is heavier than you'd think."

America just gave him a look, raising a brow and laughing at him. He took hold of England's pack and stacked it on top of his own far heavier load, giving the other a bored stare. "Nah, not feeling any difference here.

England scoffed derisively, turning away to cross his arms. "Then why don't you carry it, if you're so high and mighty with that bloody super strength of yours?" he asked, sarcasm creeping into his voice. He was a bit too irritated to bother with normal formalities, though, and when he turned around he fully expected America to be glaring at him.

He wasn't.

Instead of glaring, America was actually smiling—not smugly or rudely or as if he was going to gloat about it later, but a genuine, honest smile. It had a bit of a teasing edge to it, but there was no malice, and England couldn't help but be a bit surprised, particularly when he heard America speak. "If you honestly think I can carry all this for the whole trip, then sure."

"Obviously you can, you do it quite often," England said slowly, suddenly uncertain. "Wait, you do, don't you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. His brows furrowed, and he leaned a bit closer.

Surprisingly, America backed up, putting quite a bit of space between them in a short time. It was quite a good thing that he possessed super strength, as if he hadn't, he certainly would have overbalanced. As it was, England simply had to grasp America but the shirt-collar and pull him forward when his arms started to windmill. The incident did, however, confirm his slight suspicions.

"Don't overdo it," England said hastily and snatched his pack from the top of America's stack, placing the rucksack onto his back once more. "You look ready to keel over as is. Why on earth do you need to carry so much in the first place?"

America scratched the back of his neck, offering a slight shrug in response. "I bet Fredendall that I'd be able to carry my stuff and his stuff along with one or two other soldiers' things. I'm carrying even more than that, just so I'll be able to take stuff off half-way and still keep with the bet."

Only half following the other's logic, England just sighed and decided to let it go. "Alright, but if you get heatstroke and a sore spine tomorrow, don't say I didn't warn you." And with that, the Brit turned to meet up with the rest of his squadron, offering a stiff nod to the other nation for a more polite departure.

After a meaningless speech and a general outline of the day's journey and when and where they would be stopping for the night, both the American and the British companies moved onwards. England and America, having been given special privilege to go either ahead or behind at their pleasure, ended up walking together, not far behind the general procession of the troops.

It was generally a quiet walk, as both wanted to conserve energy for walking. However, there were periodic intervals of conversation, the like of which wasn't much more than noting oddities in the troops ahead or in the scenery around them. Occasionally they'd get into slightly deeper subjects, mainly concerning tactical maneuvers or things of that nature, but such topics were generally ended early for America's overconfidence compared with England's cynicism.

Regardless, the walk was long and hard, and throughout the day, England couldn't help but glance over at his fellow nation and notice a plethora of sweat collecting under the brim of America's hat.

Finally, he couldn't help but ask, mainly because he didn't want the other to suddenly drop forward into the dirt. "Are you alright?" His voice remained carefully neutral, but from the other's irritated expression, America knew just what he was playing at.

"Perfectly fine," he said confidently, hefting the pack further up onto his back, letting it rest on his rear so that the weight of the rucksack wasn't resting just on his shoulders. "Why d'you ask?"

America was panting by then, and the sweat just kept coming. The American nation forever had to wipe at it, staining the sleeve of his shirt dark brown from the liquid. England, disgusted, finally couldn't help but offer the other an old handkerchief, which America accepted without the breath for a proper thanks. Once the sweat was removed, however, more simply took its place and it wasn't long before the handkerchief was nearly as filthy as America's sleeve.

England, more annoyed at the ruined handkerchief than the other's mannerisms, couldn't help but grit his teeth. "Perhaps if you weren't so insistent on proving yourself superior, you'd actually manage such superiority." He was tempted to reclaim the soiled object but decided against it, simply shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from lashing out.

By contrast, America stayed silent; he appeared to be conserving his energy, most likely for the ridiculously oversize load on his back. Even just the sight of it was near-comical, and England couldn't help but scoff, much to the American's displeasure. His face hardened slightly, and he tried to walk a bit faster, as if trying to outdistance the other to prove that he was, in fact, perfectly fine.

It was incredibly unfortunate for him, however, that the sun was highest in the sky. Being rather near the equator—or at least far closer than either the countries America or England—the Tunisian sun was proving to be a bit too much. The sweat on the American's brow increased heavily, and his face became quite a bit redder than was really healthy.

England tried very, very hard to convince himself that he was trying to stop America for his own gain, not concern, but in the end he found it didn't matter what his reasons were. America started to sway slightly, and though he shrugged off England's hands, he didn't appear to be fully conscious of the action.

"Snap out of it," the Brit ordered, forcibly taking hold of America's wrist. Fortunately, the other did seem to gain some recognition, though his reaction time was subpar and he fell backwards. America fell hard, but on the plus side, the shock of hitting the ground seemed to wake him further.

Glowering, America nonetheless gained recognition of the area surrounding him. He had the sense to stay put, not trying to get up immediately, but the fact that America had gotten himself into that situation at all was frustrating to no end. Still, little could be done about it at present, and England wasn't going to lecture him while he was still suffering from minor exhaustion.

Squatting onto his knees, England appeared to find some minor amusement in the situation. "You really aren't prepared for this at all, are you?" he asked, raising a brow. He reached forward enough to grab hold of America's canteen, holding it out for him. "Come on, then. Drink up or some poor soul will have to carry your fat arse to the camp, and neither my troops nor yours want that fate."

The comment on his size seemed to elicit more of a response, and America grudgingly drank. A few minutes passed, and evidently he felt well enough to try a more vertical position, though he rather obviously ditched the packs. Not wanting to start an argument after such a holdup, England simply helped him up, doing his best to steady him.

They couldn't simply leave the extra equipment, however; after a few minutes' debate, England was allowed to radio in and request a small transport. That required a slightly longer waiting period, but England was rather safe in the knowledge that America wouldn't try to continue walking the entire way. The truck, once dispatched to them, would be logically suited to cart America back, given that he'd nearly collapsed, regardless of whether or not it had simply been from overexertion.

However, the decision didn't go as easily as he'd assumed. Both nations were stubborn and in cases such as this, America was even more so.

"You expect me to just sit in a car the whole way?" he hissed, eyes narrowed not quite to slits, but enough so that it was obvious he wasn't simply squinting from the brightness of the midday sun. "While my troops, your troops, hell, even French ones are marching all the way to Sbeitla? Fat chance."

England crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the jeep. "You're in no position to argue. You don't have to carry nearly four hundred pounds of equipment anymore, no, but what if the problem runs deeper than that? How much worse is it going to look if the jeep has to be called back a second time to haul your unconscious arse back because you were too stubborn to get in the first time it was offered?" His face was so hard it was near unreadable, but there was some understanding behind the exterior. Obviously he understood the stemming-point of America's stubbornness, understood what loyalty and sticking to a job until it was done was; they both knew perseverance, after all. But even his stance, stiff with arms crossed, a haughty expression matched with supercilious brows, spoke of certain dexterity.

America would have none of it. "If they have to send one back, they have to send one back. Look, you're strong, I'm pretty sure you can help me out a little, and besides, it's not that far of a walk from here. We're more than half way, right?" he questioned, leaning heavily against the jeep before it pulled off. "Just put your stuff in the back and just carry your canteens from your belt. We'll travel light, just on our own."

Making a bit of a face, England couldn't help but shake his head, looking rather irritated. "No, it is most certainly not a good idea. Don't be so daft," he said hastily, clutching his pack tighter, as if fearing that America would try to take it away from him. "You're hardly fit to walk, let alone participate in a march. I'll admit that we're well over halfway, but you have to realize that you're making a mistake. Just get in the bloody car and we'll get on with it."

Sensing that America wouldn't give in so quickly, England seized his opportunity, motioning to the British soldiers that had driven the car back. "Come on, put him in the jeep, he's delusional. Make sure he gets to camp without further injury."

The soldiers took his command easily, grabbing America by the arms and steering him into the car. Had it been any other day, the American would have been quite capable of fighting his way out, but as it was his arms were spent, and there wasn't much he could do but be deposited into the jeep, little more than cargo.

Still, England had a bit more compassion than that; he hesitated a moment, waiting until the engine had started and it was do or die before walking forward. He quickly set his pack in the back before sliding in next to America, offering a belated, "To make sure he doesn't get out," as an alibi.

America gave him quite the look, somewhere between bewildered and amused, but aside from a vaguely derisive chuckle, he didn't pay him further mind. The driver, now convinced there would be no more surprised passengers, started off, and it didn't take long for the jeep to not only catch up to the group ahead, but surpass it as well.

The trip from then on was blessedly uneventful, and they made it to the base a few hours ahead of the main squadron, so England considered it a small miracle. It was perhaps more of a miracle that none of the Generals that had stayed behind commented on how much earlier they'd arrived, nor America's subpar physical condition.

England, however, was not thinking about America the minute he arrived back on base. It had been a long day made longer still by the other's insistence on overexertion, and the arguments had been perhaps more taxing than the Tunisian sun. So when he'd arrived in his own private tent—a much, much higher quality than the laughable one he'd brought for the short stay around Casablanca while liberating French troops—he didn't hesitate much before dropping down onto his bed.

It was bliss; the walk, despite being shorter than what his troops had to go through, had definitely put a bit of a strain on his shoulders, given that his rucksack had been slightly over the recommended weight. Being able to lie down on his cot was a comfort he'd sincerely missed from the previous week, and he planned on making the best of that small pleasure in the night to come; he was quite looking forward to a good night's rest, and he knew without a doubt that his own troops would be too, perhaps even more so.

Still, he knew he had responsibilities at that moment and only allowed himself a brief rest before getting back up and going to find his fellow nation; the least he could do was ensure that America made it to his tent and had a few rations brought over.

To his surprise, he found America already in his tent, sitting on his cot. He didn't appear to have rations, so England's trip to the Mess Hall wasn't entirely wasted, and he deposited them on the far side of the bed.

America startled at his entrance, glancing up with wide eyes behind the notebook he'd been writing in. He hid the sheets of paper, stashing the pencil under his knees, as if trying to pretend that he hadn't been writing at all.

England, unconcerned despite the odd behavior, simply sighed and said, "You should be up by six. You're to help train your troops at seven, before the heat of the morning sets in. Understand?" His face softened a bit upon noting the other's still rather subpar contention and he added, feeling rather sympathetic, "Get some sleep, will you? You look dead on your feet."

America nodded quickly, pulling the blankets up a bit more. It appeared that cat had caught his tongue but England didn't pay it any notice whatsoever, simply disappearing behind the tent flap. A moment later, a smirk came to his face and he couldn't help but note, "You're going to break your pencil if you continue to store it under your knee, you know."

There was something satisfying in the snap he heard just before he zipped the tent flaps behind him.

* * *

**Author's note: Though I've definitely done my research for the duration of the war, translating it to a quasi-historical Hetalia fic is a bit more difficult than you'd think, so please be gracious if, as a fellow nerd, you notice an incongruency. I had to re-do the dating for this fic more times than I'm comfortable admitting, just to make sure that the days following the notable invasions were correctly listed (though those will be more important in due time). **

**I don't know when chapter two will be completed, but I have chapter three done already. I actually wrote three first, then one, so two will be the chapter between them. It's also a decent insurance to make sure I don't suddenly lose interest; if I write them out of order, obviously I have to fill in the spaces, otherwise all that I've written will be for naught. **

**Anyways, if you enjoyed this, please leave a review. I know it isn't the type of fic that I normally write (though I'm hardly consistent if you look at where I started, where I've ended up and everything in-between, most of which I'm not particularly proud of), but I'd very much appreciate your thoughts. **


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